


It Never Entered My Mind

by spetember



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, Addiction, Christianity, F/M, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:34:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27564625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spetember/pseuds/spetember
Summary: The boy who ran from death, and the girl who could never quite seem to escape it.The greatest wizard of his time, and the witch who could have been.What began as a competitive rivalry, grew into mutual tolerance, and finally blossomed into not-quite-love.
Relationships: Tom Riddle/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	It Never Entered My Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've read a lot of Tom Riddle fics over the years and always wanted to write my own! i imagine this to have quite a dark academia meets ~magic~ meets 40's vibe to it. i got all the last names for characters, including Beaufort, from the HP wiki.
> 
> the name for each chapter will be an era-appropriate (ish) song i listened to while writing to ironically reflect the story - highly recommend checking them out if you like 30s/40s tunes!!

* * *

_“His kiss! Oh, what bliss! / It weakens the heart, but it strengthens the soul!”_  
Annette Hanshaw, _Lovable and Sweet_ (1929)

* * *

_First Year_

_September 1938_

For a Muggle invention, the Hogwarts Express was admittedly far grander than he’d expected. Abraxas boarded the train with all the broad-shouldered confidence in the world, after waiting an eternity for Mother to stop kissing Claire on the forehead so they could finally set out to find an empty compartment. He had the sense to grab a hold of Claire’s hand and pull her behind him so she wouldn’t get lost in the bustling stream of students clambering aboard the train.

The first compartment they passed was full of boisterous Gryffindors—he frowned in distaste and quickly breezed past—and the next one was taken by a group of giggling Hufflepuff girls. None down the length of the train were empty. The next best option he could find had only one occupant: a boy he’d never seen before was reading by the window, dark hair neatly parted and, strangely, already in his uniform.

With two quick raps at the door, the boy looked up and regarded both of them coolly. He seemed to be about their age.

“May we join you?” Abraxas asked, very amicably, just like he’d been taught. He was honestly a little annoyed it wasn’t empty, but they’d been late boarding because Mother just didn’t want to say goodbye, so he supposed this was the best they would do. Nothing could ruin his growing excitement today: he was finally going to Hogwarts, and having to sit with some strange boy on the train wasn’t going to take that away from him.

“Of course,” the boy replied. His manner was polite and polished.

Abraxas straightened his back and smoothed his robes down, the very picture of a perfect pure-blood heir. He then extended his hand out. “Abraxas,” he stated. “Abraxas Malfoy.” He made sure to emphasise his last name.

“Tom Riddle,” said the boy, reaching up to shake his hand.

 _Riddle._ Abraxas didn’t recognize that name. It sounded like a _Muggle’s_ name, and he had half a mind to proclaim so. He narrowed his eyes.

“What’s your blood status, Riddle?”

Before he had a chance to answer, however, Claire had reached out her own hand for Tom to shake.

“Claire Beaufort,” she said, seemingly more out of habit than politeness. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

They shook hands. Her gaze was clear and sharp.

“Likewise.”

Abraxas vaguely thought this felt more like watching a business transaction than an introduction, and was rather irritated that his question had been ignored.

With formalities out of the way, Abraxas helped Claire slip their suitcases up into the overhead compartment and claimed the remaining window seat for himself. Out on the platform, in the sea of robes and pointed hats, his mother was still standing right where they’d left her. She was easy to spot in her robes of bright lilac and fair hair, but her pale face was tearful again. Abraxas sighed. He’d rolled his eyes a dozen times already at how emotional she’d been that morning alone.

“Wave to Mother,” he whispered over to Claire. The two waved out the window, and his mother fluttered a lavender handkerchief as the whistle blew. Slowly, the steam train pulled away from the platform, and Lucienne Malfoy blew kisses upon kisses until she was only a tiny purple dot in the distance.

Abraxas leaned back into his seat as he watched the dark stone and brick of King’s Cross Station gradually disappear in smoke and steam. Claire, sat quietly beside him, still had her gaze trained on the retreating platform, as if afraid to miss a final glance. She had pulled a book onto her lap, a tiny hand perched on top of the cover—it was _Hogwarts: A History_ by Bathilda Bagshot—but seemed to have no intention of reading it just yet. There was a wistful look on her face, pitifully worn and thin, and for a moment he wished his mother was still here so she could comfort her in the way only Lucienne Malfoy could.

If Abraxas had to be honest with himself, he was still getting used to having Claire around all the time, especially this _new_ Claire. He’d only just turned eleven that April when he was suddenly informed that the Malfoys would be welcoming a new member into their family. At first, Abraxas was ecstatic—this could mean a little brother! He’d finally have someone to play Quidditch with!—but when Mother had pulled him aside into the antechamber of the parlour, his high hopes went up in smoke at the sight of her face.

“Abraxas, darling, you remember Sinclaire, don’t you?” she asked kindly, kneeling down beside him. She was wringing her hands, something he’d never seen her do before.

Abraxas thought this was a rather silly question to ask, considering the Malfoys and Beauforts spent every single summer together, but the strained look in his mother’s eyes told him it wasn’t the time to talk back. He nodded once for yes, chin upright, like the perfect little gentleman he was.

“Well, she’s going to stay here with us from now on,” she told him. “Be good to her, won’t you?”

Abraxas had merely frowned, mostly in confusion than anything else. Claire lived all the way in Marseille, why would she suddenly come stay with them in the middle of Wiltshire? It wasn’t even summer yet.

“Is Uncle Orpheus coming too?” he asked. (Claire’s dad was great fun on a broom; he always played Quidditch with them in the gardens for hours, sometimes even until it got dark, which Father never did.) Abraxas nearly let himself get excited again, but then he saw his mother’s expression soften.

“No, sweetheart. Uncle Orpheus and Aunt Seraphine won’t be coming.”

“Why not?”

She pressed a hand to his cheek. The look on her face was his answer.

Abraxas was eleven years old. He wasn’t a fool. He knew full well what this meant, and he could logically comprehend the gravity of the situation in the abstract—and yet, the absurd idea that Claire’s parents were somehow— _gone_ —simply refused to register. He didn’t think to ask how it’d happened, or when, or why.

“How long’s she going to stay with us?” he asked instead.

“Hopefully for good,” was his answer, which only confused him more. “Come, let’s say hello. And treat her just like normal, darling. She’ll be happy to see you.”

With a firm hand on his shoulder, he was then ushered into the ornate parlour to find his friend sitting stiffly on the couch with a trunk at her feet. He froze.

It was definitely Claire, but she didn’t look at all like the bright-faced, mischievous girl he’d last seen several months ago. There was an exhausted, faraway sort of look on her face, and something about it made him want to turn and run back to his room. Abraxas and Claire had known each other since before either of them could even remember, and never in his life had he seen her like that before. She didn’t even acknowledge him; didn’t smile, didn’t run to embrace him, didn’t demand a Quidditch rematch. It was disorienting.

She sat still, perched like a tiny bird on the couch, her feet barely touching the floor. She was quiet when his parents showed her up to her new bedroom, and all through dinner, and the following morning.

The joint funeral was long, and everybody there was speaking French. He couldn’t wait to get home. Claire didn’t say a word.

April became May became June. Claire didn’t talk much anymore, and spent much of her time alone, reading or staring into space. His parents doted on her endlessly. At first, he tiptoed around this strange new girl, uncertain and unsure—but soon her boring silence began to irritate him and he pestered her until she managed to produce a smile. Then it was just like old times for a while; she rolled her eyes at his jokes, played piano in the drawing room, acted like a sore loser when he beat her at Wizard’s Chess. To his relief, things were nearly back to normal, until he woke up on her birthday and found her sitting by the window, looking rather cold despite the warm August sunshine. Even his present for her—a brand new Exploding Snap set with a limited-edition deck, nothing to turn your nose up at—didn’t seem to cheer her up.

“You’re being really ungrateful,” Abraxas snapped, itching to grab the game back and keep it for himself.

This was all it took for Claire to look at him with a face frail as paper and promptly burst into tears. Shame pooled in his stomach. Sure, he’d made her cry plenty of times when they were little, but never like _this_ —and anyway, Father had warned him it wasn’t gentlemanly to make a girl upset. It wasn’t until he’d nearly singed his eyebrows off during the game that she finally laughed, _really_ laughed, for the first time in months.

And then she received her Hogwarts letter later that afternoon, and suddenly everything started to fall into place. They’d go to Hogwarts together, be sorted into Slytherin, and stay best friends forever. For the first time since she’d come to live at Malfoy Manor, Abraxas was glad Claire was part of the family.

From then on, Abraxas never strayed too far from her side, and for the rest of the summer—during brunches and social gatherings and dinner parties—the two were nearly inseparable. The closer they inched towards the first of September, the more Claire acted like her usual self again, and they played Quidditch or went for ice cream at Fortescue’s and talked for hours about how excited they were for Hogwarts like nothing was wrong.

But then, inexplicably, sometimes, she went all quiet again—like today.

He didn’t like it when she went quiet. It irked him. There was almost nothing he could do when she got like this.

“Claire,” he tried, but she was so lost in thought that she didn’t even seem to notice. He tried again, to no answer. As a last resort, he then clicked his fingers right in front of her face and she snapped out of whatever trance she’d slipped into.

“What?” she asked, startled.

“You were staring,” he replied, as if this was a serious offence. “Want to play some Exploding Snap?”

“I’d rather not set fire to the compartment, thank you.”

“Gobstones, then?”

“Abraxas, you’re _joking._ We’re on a _moving train,”_ she chided, but he was satisfied to see a smile tug on the corner of her lip.

“You’re no fun,” he huffed playfully, oblivious to the sharp eyes intently watching this interaction from the seat opposite.

Claire shook her head absentmindedly, mumbling something incomprehensible to herself, and began to read. Abraxas spied the worn book in the boy’s—Riddle’s—hands, and noticed with amusement that it was also _Hogwarts: A History._ The pair of them acknowledged this coincidence with nothing more than a curt nod, and soon they pored over the pages, both with a similar air of deep concentration that Abraxas knew better than to interrupt. Riddle, especially, had this keen, sharp look on his face that was nothing short of intimidating.

Hours passed in relative silence as the train rattled on, and he skimmed a bit of _Seeker Weekly,_ but it was last week’s issue, so it wasn’t that interesting. When the trolley came round, he bought himself a Cauldron Cake, and quite a few Chocolate Frogs. The strange boy seemed intrigued by them, and glanced up from his book to study the other sweets, but bought nothing.

“D’you want anything, Claire?” asked Abraxas as he retrieved one of the many fat little coin pouches his parents had given him.

“No, thanks,” she replied absently, not looking up from her book. Nevertheless, purchased a packet of Fudge Flies and dropped it casually beside her, before he sank back into his seat and started opening up the Chocolate Frog cards.

“You needed a Thaddeus Thurkell, right?” he said, glancing at the girl beside him. “I’ll trade you for your silver Wendelin the Weird.”

“Not a chance, Malfoy.”

“Come _on_ —I’ll throw in a Balfour Blane.”

“What rank is he?”

“…bronze,” he answered sheepishly. Claire only raised an eyebrow up at him and returned to her book, and Abraxas busied himself with sorting through the rest of his new cards. A fourth Amarillo Lestoat, yet _another_ Yardley Platt, and, much to his astonishment and delight, a real Salazar Slytherin. He ripped off the packaging, disregarded the chocolate and held the little card delicately between his fingers, like it was made of pure gold.

“Look what I got!” he proclaimed smugly, wiggling the card right in front of her. She gave him a look, then the card, and Abraxas took great satisfaction in the comical way her eyes widened as she read the name.

 _“Salazar_ _Slytherin?”_ she exclaimed, snatching the card from his grip. “How did you?—that’s one of the _rarest_ —I’ll give you my Wendelin the Weird for it!”

“Not a chance, Beaufort,” he mimicked, swiftly taking the card back. That was going straight in his Folio Magi with his other gold cards. Now he just needed Helga Hufflepuff, and he’d have a full founders set. He could just picture the look on Rabanus’ face when he’d show it off to him.

“Salazar Slytherin,” said Tom Riddle suddenly, having watched them curiously from the top of his book, “as in one of the four founders of Hogwarts?”

“Yes!” said Abraxas excitedly. “And the best House, by the way.”

“Is that so?” said Tom, with a tone of innocent interest that betrayed nothing of his own thoughts on the matter.

 _“Yes,”_ said Abraxas again, delighted at the chance to brag, and turned to face the boy properly for the first time. “Slytherin House is for the ambitious. It’s the only House full of witches and wizards who would do anything within their power to get where they need to be, you know. That’s why they’re so successful.”

Unsurprisingly, Tom looked intrigued by this tall promise.

“And you believe you’ll be sorted there.”

It was phrased like a statement, not a question, and that almost made Abraxas falter before he remembered his long, proud lineage.

“No doubt,” said the young Malfoy. “My whole family’s been in Slytherin for generations. I’m basically guaranteed a spot. Mother and Father were both Slytherins, and they told me Merlin was, too, and so was—” And he went on and on about everything his parents had told him at the end of the summer, about using the resources available to him and chasing his ambitions, and Claire and Tom said nothing, listening intently.

“That does sound promising,” said Tom simply when Abraxas finally finished monologuing.

“Where are you up to?” asked Claire eventually, and Tom looked up at her with an indecipherable expression, as if uncertain she was talking to him. She gestured at the cover of her book.

“Chapter four,” he replied.

“Oh, on the construction of the moving staircases? That’s an interesting one.”

He eyed her book. “And you?”

“Chapter nine,” she said proudly. “But I won’t spoil it for you.”

Tom’s mouth quirked up in a small, sharp smile that Abraxas could only describe as smug. “That’s on the Black Lake, correct?”

By the tone of his voice, Abraxas could tell he was in fact very aware that he was right. He was slightly annoyed that he couldn’t join in on this conversation—it was the most Claire had said all day out of her own volition—but there was no way he was going to read some stuffy old book when his parents had already told him all he needed to know about school.

Claire cocked her head. “How did you know?”

“I’m rereading it,” he clarified, smiling in a good-natured way.

Her eyebrows rose. “So am I,” she said. She sounded impressed.

They shared a mutual look Abraxas couldn’t quite decipher before they returned to their respective chapters. Claire read two more before she flipped back to the first page to study the intricate illustration of the castle, with its tall rising towers and countless windows. With a sad little sigh, she let the book flutter shut on her hand and leaned back against her seat.

“I can’t believe I was supposed to go to Beauxbatons…” she mused quietly, almost to herself, and then she was staring out into the distance again. Abraxas decided it wasn’t worth it to bother her again.

Soon the sun had started to set, and sitting still for almost an entire day was beginning to take a toll on Abraxas’ nerves. Claire was quiet for the rest of the journey, and he had to call her name three— _three!_ —times to get her attention so they could go get changed into their uniforms. She blinked up at him in confusion, mumbled an “oh, thanks,” and let him help her get her suitcase down, moving like she was navigating through a thick fog.

The pair slipped out of the compartment with a polite nod at Tom, and Abraxas had the sense of mind to take his Chocolate Frog cards, just in case the strange boy with the Muggle name tried anything. On the way back, now proudly donning his brand-new uniform, Abraxas spotted two familiar faces in another compartment near the boys’ toilets, and with a cheeky grin he stepped inside to show off his new card.

* * *

Tom finished off on chapter thirteen for the day and closed his book. The second-hand copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ was peeling, with several yellowed pages nearly falling off the spine, and he glanced enviously at the brand-new copy the girl had left behind on her seat.

There was no doubt in his mind those two other First Years were from magical families, as they seemed to know what they were talking about, and most of what they _had_ been talking about sounded like utter gibberish to him. He’d tried to keep up with their odd little back-and-forth, but even just _that_ had proven to be trickier than anticipated, and it set him on edge. His fingers had been gripping the book so hard that the spine had started to rip.

He carefully set the book down and let his hands rest on his lap, controlling himself before he caused an accidental display of magic. He couldn’t go blasting the train to pieces on his first day.

All summer, Tom had been preparing himself as much as he could so his eventual transition into Hogwarts would be as seamless as possible. Ever since he’d first stepped foot in Diagon Alley under the watchful eye of Professor Dumbledore, he was quite literally spellbound, and from then on he would sneak out of Wool’s at every opportunity to go back and explore. And Tom was nothing if not thorough; he’d read and reread all his new schoolbooks over the long summer, soaking up every piece of information like a sponge. He already knew all about the properties of potion ingredients, and the history of the school, and the dangers of weather charms.

But despite all his efforts, there seemed to be certain things he couldn’t have possibly prepared himself for; he knew nothing of Chocolate Frog card trading or Exploding Snap, or how many Sickles a Cauldron Cake cost, or what on earth Gobstones were.

The Malfoy boy’s abrupt question on blood status had also stumped him, and he was admittedly rather relieved the girl happened to step in.

Tom knew vaguely of blood purity from the chapter on Salazar Slytherin and his rather controversial ideologies. He knew what a Muggle was, and knew he wasn’t one. He knew the bare basics of blood status, but had no way of knowing his own, and finding himself once again being at a disadvantage arose a feeling of hollow anger in his chest that Tom was all too familiar with. He was no fool; he’d seen the flicker in that boy’s eye when he’d introduced himself. It was a clear, unfounded distrust he’d seen so often in Mrs Cole, and even in Professor Dumbledore.

The Malfoy boy, he decided, was spoiled and bored. While Tom had used the little stipend Professor Dumbledore had given him frugally, only buying the supplies he absolutely needed and settling on second-hand robes and books, he knew he wouldn’t be able to afford anything from the trolley with what little was left. Meanwhile, that Abraxas boy barely batted an eye and practically paraded his money around. His little rant about his family had been obnoxious, too, however true the claims of his supposedly impressive heritage may be.

At least the girl was quiet, and she’d done her reading. Honestly, he’d assumed the pair were siblings at first, with their sharp faces and pale hair, until she introduced herself with a different name. He wondered if she’d also read all their academic textbooks already, as he had done, but then he smiled to himself. No, surely not. No other student would go above and beyond as he had done. He’d have her beat there, at least.

Still—and he hated to admit it—those two definitely knew more about the ins and outs of daily wizarding life than he did, by nothing more than chance of birth, and that was enough for him to garner the beginnings of dislike towards them.

But then again, he thought to himself, he could also use that to his advantage. Making an effort to be civil to them now would surely prove helpful in the long run.

When the girl—Claire Beaufort, he recalled—returned, wearing a pristine set of new school robes, she acknowledged him with a silent nod and returned to her seat to read. It had already grown dark outside, but the small lamps hanging overhead had magically turned themselves on at some point during the journey, and the warm golden glow provided just enough reading light.

Several minutes passed, but the Malfoy boy didn’t return. That was just as well; at least it would be quiet.

Tom scrutinized the girl. She looked rich and proper—a black ribbon in her golden hair, shiny leather shoes, sitting with an air of young aristocracy. She was nervously bouncing her leg when suddenly she snapped the book shut and set it aside. With her leg still jiggling irritably, brows knit together, and eyes wide and awake, she looked as anxious and excited as he felt. Her gaze darted around the small compartment distractedly until it landed on the untouched packet of Fudge Flies on the seat beside her, as if she hadn’t even realized it was there.

“Excuse me,” she said then, looking at Tom. She offered it to him. “Would you care for these? I’m not a fan of fudge.”

Tom eyed the bright purple packaging critically. His immediate instinct was to refuse, but he hadn’t eaten all day, and the offer was certainly tempting. He hated to admit it, but he was hungry. And he’d never tried fudge before. He’d only tasted chocolate once before, stolen from one of the boys at school.

Deeming it harmless, Tom accepted the packet from her outstretched hand and slipped it into his robes for later. She seemed to think nothing of it. He had the good sense to utter a polite “thank you,” and before she could return to staring into space, he decided now would be a perfect opportunity to gain any more information that might come in handy.

“You mentioned Beauxbatons,” he remarked rather stiffly, remembering her mumbling earlier. He recognized the name only because it was mentioned in a footnote somewhere in _A History of Magic_. “That’s in France, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said, a small smile forming on her lips. “That’s where I was going to go, up until…recently.”

Now that he was paying attention, Tom could detect the slightest accent in the subtle inflections and intonations of her voice, especially the way she said her r’s—but to the untrained ear, she sounded nothing more than rather posh.

“Do you know which House you’ll be in?”

The girl seemed surprised by the question. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Not a clue,” she admitted. “I’m the first of my family to go to Hogwarts, unlike Abraxas. But from my reading I’ve found which one I prefer.”

“So have I,” said Tom, guessing they probably had the same idea in mind if she had any good sense. “I was surprised to read how different they all are.”

“They’re very distinct,” she agreed. Then, as if she had read his mind, she added, “but it’s true what Abraxas said about Slytherin.”

He then asked about the sorting procedures, but was disappointed to find she knew no more than him. “Uncle Aegeus says it’s a surprise—that no First Years are supposed to know,” she clarified. “But he promised it’s not painful or dangerous. I assume it’s some kind of test.”

“And if you fail?”

The girl must have had the exact same worry, because she gave him a knowing look.

“You can’t fail. I checked. Apparently the older students sometimes lie that it’s a trial by dragon or fire and that you can be killed, or even expelled—but that isn’t true, it’s just a scare tactic.”

Tom was satisfied with this information, and after swapping opinions on _Hogwarts: A History_ and a few passing comments on the architecture of the building, they finally fell silent. It wasn’t an awkward silence, but neither felt the need to speak, so they simply sat opposite one another, studying the horizon beyond the window.

It was too dark outside to see much except the blackened treetops and distant mountains, so his uninterested gaze travelled back to her every now and then. She looked almost like a different person, small and frail, staring out the window with a faraway look in her eyes. It was a look he recognized from eleven years at Wool’s Orphanage, and the sight unsettled him. He did not look at her again.

Tom wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but the train had slowed down considerably when their door slid open. Abraxas popped his head into the compartment, flanked by two other boys.

“Where have you been?” asked the girl.

“Ran into Rabanus and Eddie,” he explained casually, gesturing behind him.

“Rabanus Lestrange,” said the taller one, his beady eyes skimming over Tom.

The other boy, far shorter than the others and with an almost girlishly delicate face, briefly met Tom’s eyes. “Edmund Avery.”

“Tom Riddle,” said Tom, giving them both a polite nod.

They did not bother introducing themselves to Claire, but did exchange curt greetings.

“You two better get ready, apparently we’re nearly there.”

This statement was enough to bring back all their lingering excitement and nervousness in a fresh, new wave. Claire and Tom both stood up to pack away their books and collect their belongings. Abraxas frowned.

“What are you doing? You don’t bring your bags in _yourself,”_ he declared, as if this were obvious. “Now come _on,_ I want to be the first inside!”

And with a look of impatience, he disappeared out the compartment with a swish of his robes. Claire and Tom exchanged a silent glance, and followed him out without another word. As they exited the compartment, the train slowed to a gradual stop. Dozens of giddy First Years had already packed themselves like sardines in the aisle, excitedly awaiting their arrival, tripping on each other’s feet to get to the front. Malfoy, Lestrange, Avery, Beaufort and Riddle breezed past to exit the train. It was cold outside. The sign on the platform read Hogsmeade Station, and, behind them, on a faraway hilltop, the striking silhouette of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry rose under the pale moonlight.

The First Years made their way to the dock, dozens of sets of shoes echoing on wet pavement. The Black Lake certainly lived up to its name in the inky darkness, and once Tom, Abraxas, and Claire boarded one of the self-propelling boats, the young heir started to complain that his shoes were getting wet, until the boat rounded the dock and the trio was quickly rendered speechless. The three of them watched in silent awe as the castle looming overhead came into clear view, lit by golden torches and starlight. And, strangely enough, Tom began to feel a peculiar, contented sort of warmth he had never felt before spread through his chest.

It took him a moment to put his finger on it—Tom felt like he’d come home.

His sense of belonging only grew with each passing second. The moving portraits, the ghosts flying through the walls, the gold and marble of the walls. However wonderful and otherworldly it all was, and however strange and unnatural it appeared, Tom had no doubt that he was right where he was supposed to be.

The Great Hall certainly lived up to its name, but even the winding paragraphs and intricate descriptions in _Hogwarts: A History_ miserably failed to capture its true splendour. With deep interest, Tom studied the enchanted ceiling as the group entered the hall, impressed by the depth of the illusion. The crescent moon seemed to shine right above their heads, and he spotted constellations he had never been able to see from his tiny window in Wool’s—Lyra, Draco, Ursa Major.

Headmaster Dippet gave a long speech welcoming the new students, greeting the old ones, and went about listing several warnings and rules to be heeded. When Tom and the other First Years were finally ushered into the narrow aisle at the very front of the hall, unfamiliar robes hanging heavy, he wondered, again, about the House sorting. From the excited whispers all around him, it seemed he wasn’t the only one. Abraxas had just turned around and opened his mouth to speak when an elderly professor came forward and procured a dirty old pointed hat and a scroll of names. There was another ripple of hushed chatter.

“What is _that?”_

 _“That_ thing’s gonna sort us?” whispered Abraxas harshly.

“You better get Slytherin, mate,” said the taller boy beside him.

“Shut up, Lestrange. Of course I will.”

Lestrange wore a cocky smile. “I’ll believe it when I see it, Malfoy.”

Tom narrowed his eyes as the hat began to sing. (Strangely enough, the odd, warbling tune was definitely the most unexpected thing he had encountered the entire day.) Soon names were called out from the scroll in ascending alphabetical order by last name, and Tom made a conscious effort to remember them all for future reference. The first name called—Amandalina Abbott, a small, freckled thing—was sorted into Hufflepuff. She shook pathetically as she stepped up to the front of the hall.

Second was Edmund Avery, the shorter boy by Abraxas’ side. He was quietly self-assured as he ascended the steps up to the little stool, allowing the Sorting Hat to be placed on his head. It was silent for just a moment, folds arranged in what resembled a contemplative expression, before it proclaimed, “Slytherin!”

There was a round of applause. Tom caught the sudden glint of green and silver on Avery’s uniform that hadn’t been there before.

Then a Ravenclaw, followed by two Gryffindors in a row. Tom studied each House critically as the new students joined their tables, recalling all the information he’d absorbed this summer.

“Beaufort, Sinclaire!”

The girl beside him alerted at the sound of her name. He heard her breath hitch. She stepped forward with easy, straight-backed confidence, her chin held high and her face placid; Tom would have never guessed she was nervous if he hadn’t seen her earlier on the train. She walked up to the stool, her shiny school shoes echoing on the stone floor.

The hat was placed on her neat, pale locks, and Tom waited to hear where she would belong, but it said nothing. Several moments passed in tense silence. The crowd stilled in anticipation, but it remained uncomfortably quiet for quite some time, and whispers soon broke out across the hall. The girl’s face betrayed no emotion, eyes trained straight ahead as the hat murmured and moved, inaudible to anyone but herself.

Two minutes passed. Then three, then four. Tom began to sense Abraxas’ restlessness. He leaned over to Rabanus to whisper, “Why is it taking so long…?” just as the hat finally decided:

“I see… Slytherin!”

With a sharp smile that brightened her thin face, Tom watched as the girl’s uniform took on her new House colours and she proudly joined the table on the far end of the hall.

A girl with sleek dark hair and piercing eyes named Walburga Black was next. Slytherin. Melisandre Bulstrode, Slytherin. Vera Day, Gryffindor. Valentin Dolohov, Slytherin. Eugenia Clearwater, Hufflepuff. Tom followed the names, although one House in particular stood out to him above the other three. Malfoy and his friend, Lestrange, soon joined the table. They all seemed to know exactly where they belonged, wearing identical smug smiles and with a self-assured air to them.

He waited with bated breath.

“Riddle, Tom.”

With a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth, Tom stepped up to the stool and allowed the Sorting Hat to be placed on his head.

 _Tom Marvolo Riddle,_ the hat said, its gruff voice resonating peculiarly in his mind. _Let’s see._ _Boundless ambition, endless determination… Certainly cunning, yes… Humble beginnings, perhaps, but a prodigious heritage indeed. You’re an easy one, boy, this is in your blood._

“Slytherin!”

Not a second later, Tom joined the other First Years at the table, taking a seat in the empty space beside Valentin Dolohov and Rabanus Lestrange, opposite Abraxas Malfoy and Claire Beaufort. Only a few more joined their number; the vast majority of the new students were divided between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor.

 _A prodigious heritage indeed…_ he thought, echoing the Sorting Hat’s words over in his mind. _You’re an easy one, boy, this is in your blood._

With a feeling of satisfaction and intrigue swelling in his chest, Tom filed away those exact words to be mulled over at a later date. For now, he would enjoy the Welcoming Feast and observe. He watched the rest of the Sorting Ceremony from his rightful place at the Slytherin table, regarding everything with less cynicism than usual.

* * *

Claire sat with Abraxas at her right, looking out over the strange sea of familiar and unfamiliar faces gathered around her. She’d already poured a goblet of pumpkin juice and helped herself to roast potatoes and honey-glazed carrots and asparagus tips from the enormous gold platters of food, and as she ate her dinner she took to studying the other First Years. She knew Edmund Avery and Rabanus Lestrange from Abraxas’s birthday party two years ago, and vaguely recognized one or two of the other pure-blood children from formal functions over the years, though most of the faces were entirely new.

“Told you I was guaranteed a spot,” Abraxas was saying to Rabanus, who merely rolled his eyes. “Did you see? The hat barely even touched my head.”

“You got lucky, Malfoy, that’s all. I think I heard the Hufflepuffs calling your name.”

The boys around them laughed, and Abraxas bristled. “Sod off, Lestrange.”

“Imagine a Malfoy not being in Slytherin,” Edmund mused from Abraxas’ right, drizzling an unholy amount of gravy over his Yorkshire puddings.

“Your father would fly you right off to Azkaban, mate,” snickered Rabanus.

“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” snapped Abraxas. Claire nearly snorted at his short temper, biting her bottom lip to stop herself. “Pass me the pumpkin juice.”

“Your name is Sinclaire Beaufort, right?” a boy seated to her left suddenly asked. Claire glanced at the auburn-haired boy, her goblet halfway to her lips, and acknowledged this with a nod. To her surprise, he smiled at her—a contagious, easy-going smile. “Dominique Rosier, _c’est un plaisir.”_

For a moment, Claire was completely taken aback, before she found herself mirroring his expression. _“Ravie de vous rencontrer,”_ she replied pleasantly, in her proper pure-blood heiress voice. (She hadn’t spoken French to anyone but Abraxas’ parents all summer, as Abraxas, far from fluent, only picked up bits and pieces; he faltered when she exploded in a rapid rant, and she’d given up trying to teach such an unwilling student.) _“Je ne savais pas que quelqu’un ici parlait Français.”_

 _“Bien sûr, mais… Vous?”_ he said playfully. “Why so formal, Beaufort?”

 _“Enchantée,_ then, Rosier,” she corrected lightly.

 _“Enchanté,_ indeed.”

She was rather aware that the other students were listening in, although she wasn’t quite sure who else could understand them. This only made her want to continue. With a renewed sense of excitement, they spoke of where they were from—he lived in Paris, just like Lestrange’s relatives, and she described her home in Marseille with only a lingering feeling in the back of her mind that she was forgetting something. (It would hit her later that night as she lay in bed, but that evening, at the Slytherin table, she forgot all about the events of that summer.) Abraxas watched them, sometimes able to follow along, sometimes utterly lost, but Claire did not miss his look of encouragement.

Valentin Dolohov, who had a rather unpleasant disposition and wild dark hair, gruffly introduced himself after Dominique. Nearly all the boys seemed to know one another already, and Claire felt herself being pulled into their bickering and bantering, being seated right in the middle of the group. Suddenly Lestrange and Dolohov were arguing about a foul committed at the Falmouth Falcons’ last match, and Claire watched their heated little back-and-forth, amused.

Suddenly one of the older boys eagerly leaned in, nearly knocking over several goblets across the table.

“Morgan Mulciber,” he said with a slick grin, “Second Year. Good thing there’s so many of you. We’re on a winning streak with the House Cup, and have no intention of losing this year.”

“Of course we’ll win,” said Abraxas haughtily.

“You’re Malfoy, yeah?” asked Mulciber, and Abraxas quickly nodded. “Your father is quite famous around here, you know—one of the best Seekers Slytherin ever had, Slughorn says. I’m trying out for Beater, by the way—Captain says we need some strong new players. I hope you’re thinking of trying out for the team.”

Abraxas had a cocky grin on his face. “I’ll see if I have time,” he said coyly. Claire wanted to roll her eyes; Abraxas had gone on and on about nothing but Quidditch all summer. Instead, her gaze locked with Tom Riddle’s across the table, and they exchanged a silent look.

Mulciber then turned his attention to Claire. “You took quite a while up there,” he noted, eyeing her suspiciously. “Thought we were going to have a Hatstall for a second.”

“A Hatstall?” Avery repeated.

Another older boy, lanky and freckled, piped up. “Yeah, a Hatstall—Cornelius Nott, by the way, pleasure—a Hatstall is rather rare,” he explained. “Happens when the hat can’t decide where to put you.”

“It knew,” she said brusquely, “we were just having a chat.”

“About what?” asked Mulciber, narrowing his eyes.

“That’s between me and the hat, Mulciber,” she replied, playfully enough that this was taken as a joke and everyone around them laughed. In truth, the hat _had_ been unable to decide, and noted all her characteristics back to her for what felt like forever, both the admirable and the unflattering. Eventually, it had scoured through her mind so thoroughly Claire started to feel dizzy and irritated.

Abraxas was looking smug. “Not everyone can be as quick as me.”

“Perhaps I’m simply more complex than you, Brax,” joked Claire. He huffed at the nickname more than the insult.

“Hey,” said Lestrange suddenly, staring directly at Tom Riddle. The dark-haired boy, who had been quiet thus far, stared back, cool and composed. “What’s your name again?”

“Tom Riddle,” he answered politely, despite the boy’s appalling manners.

“You were awfully quick, too,” noted Avery, running a hand through his honey-coloured hair. “The hat was barely on for two seconds.”

“I suppose,” he said simply. “Slytherin is in my blood, after all.”

Despite how vague the words actually were, there was a certain self-assuredness in his tone that the boys were notably pleased by, and they questioned him no further. Claire supposed their initial distrust was due to Tom’s rather Muggle-sounding name, and while it had certainly surprised her back on the train, she didn’t know nearly enough about the English wizarding families to draw any conclusive judgement. The boy seemed far too knowledgeable on Hogwarts to be a Muggle-born, and if Slytherin was in his blood then he may well be a half-blood, if not pure.

Claire met Tom’s eyes across the table again, and they shared a mutual look of interest. Unbeknownst to Claire, he was wondering about the Hatstall; Claire was wondering about his heritage. They did not break eye contact for perhaps a moment too long, and she found herself unable to look away from his unusually piercing gaze. She found she could not quite decipher his character: he was polite and quiet, yet there was an anxious restlessness in his calm, careful disposition. He knew all about Hogwarts, but reacted with such wide-eyed surprise at the trolley of sweets. It was quite endearing, and admittedly rather confusing.

After dinner and pudding—Riddle was unable to hide a bewildered look at the sheer spread of sweets—their empty plates and goblets disappeared, and the students were ushered off to their new common rooms by the Prefects. Claire let herself be swallowed up by the crowd, and followed the stream of babbling students down towards the Slytherin Dungeons. The descending steps and winding corridors were dark, and not quite what she’d been expecting from how fondly Abraxas’ parents had described it.

The group stopped at a bare stretch of stone at the end of a corridor. For a moment they simply stood there, looking at the wall, utterly unimpressed. Dolohov let out a scoff. But then, when the Prefect uttered the password—“Oneiromancy”—a hidden passageway was revealed behind the dark stone, tunnelling downward through the dungeon wall. Claire took a tentative step forward, utterly fascinated.

“Oneiromancy…?” whispered Avery.

“A form of Divination based on dreams,” murmured Claire and Tom at the same time. They shared a look of surprise, but were quickly distracted by their surroundings.

The Slytherin common room was just as she’d expected: sleek, luxurious, and slightly sinister. Tall pillars of serpentine and dark marble rose from the floor, and the walls were decorated with emerald tapestries and moving portraits all hung in elegant silver frames. The dozens of sets of footsteps were muffled by lush green carpeting beneath their feet. A blistering fire was burning in the intricate fireplace, filling the room with a warm, flickering glow. They were, Claire quickly realized, underneath the Black Lake; the water looked murky and cold this late at night, and occasionally a dark shadow would dart past the windows. She would have liked to sit and peer through the glass for a closer look.

But the true crowning jewel that drew everyone’s attention the moment they stepped foot into the room was hung above the ornate mantelpiece. A brilliant portrait of their founder loomed over them, old and brooding, with a massive silver snake coiled protectively around the frame. Its forked tongue was permanently set in a warning hiss.

“Curfew is at ten o’clock,” the Prefect was saying, falling mostly on deaf ears, “and failure to comply will result in a detention or the deduction of House Points—and, as I have already made exceedingly clear, we are striving for our third consecutive victory in winning the House Cup this year, so I expect you all to be on your best behaviour. Class schedules will be delivered tomorrow morning at seven o’clock sharp, and lessons begin at…”

Claire listened diligently, eyes wandering back to the portrait every so often. After giving Abraxas a customary kiss on the cheek goodnight (prompting some teasing comments from Rosier and Lestrange) she followed the female Prefect into the girls’ dormitories. It was just as sleek and dark as the common room, tinted green by enchanted torchlight, and she took in the size of the bed and the beautiful emerald brocade on the canopy with pleasant surprise.

While the Slytherin dungeons were by no means as extravagant as the Malfoys’ home, nor the Beaufort estate, it held an ancient sort of splendour that made her feel, unexpectedly, right at home. Claire was about to reach for her trunk and change into her nightgown when the girl occupying the bed to her left stuck out her hand.

Claire surveyed her for a moment. She took it and shook.

“Walburga Black,” the girl announced. Her eyes were sharp, and rather feline; her voice was harsh to the ears and gratingly direct.

“Sinclaire Beaufort,” she replied. “Pleasure.”

Walburga’s eyes narrowed at the sound of her name. “What’s your blood status, Beaufort?”

The question did not shock her; she knew of the Black family and their infamous reputation.

“Pure,” she said sharply. “I believe my Aunt Hippolyte married a cousin of yours.”

“Ah, yes. I believe so,” Walburga agreed, and, evidently satisfied the girl had met her standards, started to unpack. A pretty, freckled redhead introduced herself as Sylvestra Flint, and the tall curly-haired girl was called Melisandre Bulstrode. Anthea Selwyn, a stunningly beautiful brunette, gave Claire a polite nod and introduced herself eloquently. She carried herself with unexpected elegance for their age.

“You look familiar,” said Sylvestra, scrutinizing Claire as she brushed her long, red hair. Claire flushed, having dreaded this inevitable phrase.

“Really?” she asked, feigning innocence. “I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

“Are you sure? I’m from Birmingham. Have you ever been?”

“No,” said Claire. “I lived in France.”

“Oh,” replied the girl, frowning, not having caught Claire’s slip of the past tense _lived._ “Never mind, then.”

After some pleasant, but forced small talk, the girls changed into their nightgowns and settled into their beds. Claire cleaned her teeth, braided her hair back, and tied it with a ribbon—just as she would do at home. It was strange to get ready for sleep with other people in the room.

Before lights-out, she reached for a book in her trunk and found, instead, a framed photograph. It was an old picture of herself sitting on her mother’s lap when she was about six, spitting images of one another. She didn’t remember packing this. Aunt Lucienne must have snuck it in.

A heavy weight filled her chest. Claire stared at her mother’s glamorous face for quite some time; her shimmering gown, her hair in immaculate finger waves _à la mode,_ the familiar smile playing on her eyes. Carefully, she placed it on her empty bedside table, so it faced only her.

 _“Bonne nuit, Maman,”_ she told it, feeling rather silly doing so.

The woman in the photo blew her a silent kiss. It felt fulfilling and lacking all at once.

With great difficulty, she tore her eyes from the frame and drew the canopy shut around her, and once her head hit the pillow she fell into a fitful, dreamless sleep. Somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i also made a pinterest board for this fic!! - https://pin.it/1dnErXR
> 
> please do comment any feedback!


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